


an ever-fixed mark

by steviesfreckles



Category: The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Cannon Divergence, Character Study, Clizzy - Freeform, Coda, Episode: s02e11, F/F, Fluff, Introspection, Poetic, Song fic, this is really just written spoke word poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22749874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviesfreckles/pseuds/steviesfreckles
Summary: Isabelle takes leave to her favorite diner before the sun can rise. Addiction is hard, no matter how strong you are."It didn’t make sense, she supposed, that the one thing that had all the strings attached, was so disentangled. Isabelle’s heartstrings were numerous and taut and her redheaded love played them like a musician, gliding her fingers across them, making her insides sing the most beautiful tune she had ever heard."What would have happened if Isabelle hadn't ended up in an ally way looking to get bit or running into Sebastian? What would have happened if she had called her girlfriend instead?Inspired by Sonnet 116 and take me to church
Relationships: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17





	an ever-fixed mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatnerdemryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatnerdemryn/gifts).



> "Love is not love  
> Which alters when it alteration finds,  
> Or bends with the remover to remove:  
> O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,  
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
> It is the star to every wandering bark,  
> Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.  
> Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
> Within his bending sickle’s compass come;  
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
> If this be error and upon me proved,  
> I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
> 
> ~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
> 
> For Em, 
> 
> with love,
> 
> Saff

The cracked vinyl of the booth Isabelle had settled in scraped against her jeans. She leaned back, pulling her hands in close to blow on her cup of coffee. This diner was run down, old and on its last leg, but the food was good and the waitresses were nice so Isabelle kept coming back. She sighed in time with the flickering lights that buzzed overhead, looking out the smudged window. 

The moon swayed low in the sky, clinging to its blanket of stars. The neon glow of New York felt distilled in this little booth. The cherry-red seating and the white table threw her into the past while the wide world on the other side of the glass rocketed into the future. 

Isabelle took a sip of her coffee. 

This world was encompassing, an ocean of meaning at her fingertips. Isabelle found herself enamored with the complexities and knotted conundrums. She liked to think. Her mind twisted around, bringing her love to the forefront of her mind. This was the only thing in her life that was simple. 

It didn’t make sense, she supposed, that the one thing that had all the strings attached, was so disentangled. Isabelle’s heartstrings were numerous and taut and her redheaded love played them like a musician, gliding her fingers across them, making her insides sing the most beautiful tune she had ever heard. 

The woman was effortless, a true prodigy, and Isabelle couldn't decide what it meant. Her past tugged at her emotions, her worries. It screamed at her, yet it was so small, led such a minute existence, that when she was faced with the enormity of her affections, Isabelle couldn’t hear it at all. 

God, when their lips met, the world faded into the background. Isabelle used her fingers to write poems across her lover’s skin. Every bruise on her neck, a word, every biting crescent of fingernails, a hymn. She loved to worship, to sit at the altar of her hips. This woman was the only church Isabelle would ever visit. 

There was absolution in the way her artist’s fingers would tangle in Isabelle’s hair, tugging and begging. No father, no pastor, no rabbi would forgive her, certainly not when she didn’t seek penance for her sins.  _ But this, _ she thought,  _ could never be a sin.  _ Her lover had descended from heaven, angel’s blood in her veins and god’s word on her tongue. She gave Isabelle something holy, something divine. 

The silver bell above the door interrupted Isabelle’s thoughts. 

She caught her breath. 

There she was in all her glory, Clarissa Fairchild. 

Even with copper hair piled messy and high on her head and purple crescent moons planted beneath her eyes, she was the most beautiful thing Isabelle had ever seen. Shifting in her booth, Izzy slid her legs into the aisle. 

They needed no words to say hello. Clary slipped into her space, standing tall above where Izzy was sat. Isabelle tucked her head forward, coming to rest on Clary’s stomach. Fingers threaded through her thick hair, offering a comfort Isabelle didn’t know she needed. Her love always knew, gentle words and a beating heart that asked her to breathe deeply.

A soft hand pulled her onto shaky feet. This was her last bite of pie and the moment right before wakefulness, lovely and somehow bittersweet. Isabelle did not want to stand on her own, to once again stoop to pick up the sky and carry it on her shoulders, but the line of heat at her side was persistent.  _ You are not alone,  _ it said,  _ I am always right here, all you have to do is take the first step.  _

So Isabelle did, one step at a time, she trudged through this hell on earth, killing demons and fighting for something better. The exhaustion made her bones creak and her defenses crumble, but Clary was there, ever-present, covering her blind spots and lifting her burden when it became too much to bear on her own. She was Isabelle’s guardian angel, wings and all.

Clary pulled her close, nose to nose, both hands cradling Izzy’s face. Isabelle didn't know who leaned in that last, scant bit of space. When they kissed, Isabelle was pulled into her orbit, spinning until everything fell away and gravity meant as much as the dirt beneath her sneakers. 

Isabelle traced her tongue along Clary’s plush bottom lip, falling somewhere between longing and desperate. Clary kissed her like the world was ending, and in some ways it was. Fire burned through everything she touched, but this, this passion, was refining, melting Isabelle down until Clary swam through her veins. 

Isabelle only pulled away when her lungs were pleading for air, looking into her lover’s eyes, searching for answers to questions she had never voiced. Clary offered her a small smile, wrapped in parcel paper and a bow. It had taken months to know when it was folded up beneath the pretty wrappings and when it was bare and raw.  _ How long, _ she wondered,  _ until she would be able to rip away the coverings and snap the ribbon?  _

Clary stepped back, still attached to Isabelle everywhere she could touch, and pulled her towards the door. To be swept along in the current was the hardest thing she had ever done, to stop fighting against everything she was raised to see as vile. Her heart sweetly ached. If to love and be loved fully in return was to have everything, then she could ask for no more than what she already had.

They walked home as Brooklyn came awake around them, and when Isabelle looked to the sky, the sun and moon danced together, neither having to disappear for the other to have life. 

  
  



End file.
